Who'da Thought?
by Simon920
Summary: Dick Grayson/Nightwing ruminates about some of the recent changes in his life. Be warned: some strong language.


life

Warnings: language

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes. Beden65 

**Who'da Thought?**

So I was watching the news a while ago, just sitting there eating some Chinese take out (damn good, too) and a story about me came on; didn't expect that, honest to god. 'Where was Nightwing? Was he really dead? So young, so sad, such a loss.' This was followed by a crappy, half-assed retrospective of me. A Life and Times kind of thing. It was cheesy as hell but, what? I wasn't going to watch?

Who'da thought?

Yeah, okay, that was a little facetious. I've had more stories written about me, true ones and total bullshit ones, than I can count and they started when I was three years old. This one got me thinking, though. Especially about the parts of the show they didn't know diddly about so filled it with all kinds of 'rumors abound about his youth/parents/background/relationships/real name/age/reasons for becoming who he is/was'. Blahblahblah. It was crap but it kick-started me thinking.

Way back when, when I was a little kid, back before my parents were killed, back when I was flying, back when the Flying Graysons were plural, I'd be part of PR stories to hype Haley's Circus before we'd roll into whatever town we'd be playing. I got used to it, didn't think much about it and just took it as part of my day to day.

I was Dick Grayson, part and parcel of the Flying Graysons. I traveled with the circus, traveled with my parents, played everywhere, worked, rehearsed, learned how to work a crowd (and _damn_, that was _fun_) and earned money from just about the time I could walk. I was six, seven, eight years old and I was helping to support the family. I _contributed. _When I thought about it, which I didn't do too often, I kinda felt sorry for other kids, kids who had tickets bought by their parents or someone and who just sat in the audience. The kids who lined up after the shows, looked at me like I was some kind of freak and, usually prompted by parents, asked for an autograph or to take a picture.

Jesus, I loved everything about it.

Next up, ten years or so as Robin, back half of Batman and...

Yeah, the whole watching my parents die, ending up in Juvie for a month pretty much sucked. 'Sucked doesn't begin to describe it, if you want to know but it's not like I was in any kind of a power position, right? What with being eight years old. So Bruce found me, bailed me out and gave me the training to become his sidekick—the first sidekick and a frigging good one, if I say so myself. Okay, sure, I tended to get hit on the head or tied up a little too often but what the hell; it was a learning curve, okay? Overall I think I did pretty well when you come down to it.

Sure, I know I was young, really young. Probably too young but I guess I had the chutzpah to pull it off and I largely place that on my dad's head. My real father, I mean; the man who made me believe that I'd never fall because he'd always, always be there to catch me. He's the one who made me believe that I could do it—pick any 'it' you want—and come out smiling. I don't know, maybe it's simply part of my DNA or maybe it was his but John Grayson gave me the basics to allow me to both cope with his and mom's deaths and to make Robin work when everyone in their right minds thought the idea should have been tossed before it had a chance to even make it out of Bruce's brain and into mine.

Sure, Bruce taught me how to be a vigilante and a damn good detective and all of that but my dad gave me the confidence to pull it off. And, not to sound obnoxious, but I think that I made a lot of Robin happen on my own. Okay, I had the moves, could pull off the flips and stunts. I loved—really loved—the Bat Ropes, Batarangs, Batmobile ( a major sweet ride) and everything else 'Bat'. Jeez, I was like ten years old; cheesy was my life blood at that point.

And the Titans. Thank god for them. Friends. Friends I could talk to, who got what we did and why. A refuge from Bruce when he was on a tear, companions, brothers (including Donna), knowing that they had my back, knowing that I could vent, rant, clam up and it was all good.

Thank god for them.

Okay, so that lasted a good decade or so before Bruce decided to shitcan the whole Robin idea, which brings us to the whole Nightwing period. Yes, sure, I'm skipping a whole lot of clusterfuck regarding that last sentence but I would rather skip it, it still hurts. Yeah, I've come to grips with it, still think it was BS and a guilty conscious on Bruce's part and that's the way it is. I've also largely put the Jason years behind me because it's just so—hell, I don't even know how to say it. It was so frigging wrong for a lot or reasons and then he was killed. That's something Bruce has to live with.

I won't belabor the how's and why's of that; if you're reading this you already know what went down there and about the years when Bruce was at the top of my shit list, how I picked my new ID to piss him off (even though I still think it was a way cool cover name).

Y'know? I really liked being Nightwing and, for better or worse, I made a helluva difference in Bludhaven's crime stats.

I like working with other people, meta, cop on the beat or otherwise, but I'm at a stage now where I like working independently as well. God knows I'd never turn down an assist from Kal or someone but I know I can handle things, I've got this. I was thinking, just mulling things over the other day and realized that I've been an official good guy for more than two thirds of my life and I'm still in my mid-twenties. That sound arrogant? I guess it might but it's not ego if it's true.

Don't get me wrong, there's still plenty of stuff I need to work on; relationships, especially with women, cooking, time management and a few others but the crime fighting side? Yeah.

The costumes? Everyone wonders about them. It's not hard to figure, at least I don't think it is. The original Robin costume? I was young, that's about all I can say about that. Sure there were reasons behind it—not great reasons—but reasons. And yeah, I stuck with a few years longer than I should have. Nightwing, I know, I know; that was look searching for a resolution. I suppose you could say it was evolving or something but basically I couldn't really make up my mind. I'd come up with something—or Alfred would—wear it for a while then catch a look at myself in a mirror or window reflection or a picture in a newspaper or magazine and wonder what the hell I was thinking. But, y'know, that black costume with the blue trim? That frigging rocked big time, sure as hell showed my best assets to advantage, if I say so myself. 'Should have just stuck with it, I guess. The Elvis look, all right, mistakes happen, okay? I'm still embarrassed about that.

And let's not discuss the pixie boots. Don't go there.

Me as Batman? Cripes, whoever thought _that_ was a good idea? Sure, I had to help Bruce when he was down for the count for a few months or whatever it was but I'm not Batman, Batman isn't me. I was happy to see the back end of that stage of my life.

Then Back to Nightwing. New costume, new persona, new me. That was the plan, anyway. The problem was that I'm still me, no matter what city I'm in, no matter what costume I have on my back. It just didn't really work; I knew it then and I know it now. It was like someone was writing a script but they hadn't done the background work, didn't know who I am/was/should be. Square pegs don't do well with round holes is about the best I can say about that.

Just not a good fit.

So Bruce, TPTB, decided to kill me again. He did it figuratively when I was eighteen when he pulled the Robin rug out from under me and he did it again when he decided that I should literally die, funeral, opened coffin, burial, the whole nine yards, then secretly come back and take up the reins as some kind of half-assed quasi James Bond.

What do I think about this? Me with a fucking gun?

Clusterfuck.

That's what I think. He couldn't even let Alfred know I wasn't really dead? _Alfred?_ No words for that piece of sadistic idiocy.

I also think that in a year or so I'll either pack it in for real or come back in my eight hundredth incarnation.

I know, the easiest thing would have been for me to refuse, say no, back away from the table, right? But you'd be surprised how much control over my life I don't seem to have. It's easy to say that we all make choices and all that but sometimes it's not that simple, it really isn't. You have your life and sometimes it seems to me that the Big PTB in the sky or sitting at a desk in some office decides to mess with you. You're sailing along and the Cosmic Editor or the Holy Writers or maybe the All-Powerful Publishers decide to throw in a plot twist whether you like it or not.

Well, I don't like it, truth be known.

And that's all I have to say about it.

7/4/14 (Happy Fourth of July)


End file.
